By Christmas Day Sidney was back in the hospital, a little wan, but
valiantly determined to keep her life to its mark of service. She had a
talk with K. the night before she left.

Katie was out, and Sidney had put the dining-room in order. K. sat by the
table and watched her as she moved about the room.

The past few weeks had been very wonderful to him: to help her up and down
the stairs, to read to her in the evenings as she lay on the couch in the
sewing-room; later, as she improved, to bring small dainties home for her
tray, and, having stood over Katie while she cooked them, to bear them in
triumph to that upper room--he had not been so happy in years.

And now it was over. He drew a long breath.

"I hope you don't feel as if you must stay on," she said anxiously. "Not
that we don't want you--you know better than that."

"There is no place else in the whole world that I want to go to," he said
simply.

"I seem to be always relying on somebody's kindness to--to keep things
together. First, for years and years, it was Aunt Harriet; now it is you."

"Don't you realize that, instead of your being grateful to me, it is I who
am undeniably grateful to you? This is home now. I have lived around--in
different places and in different ways. I would rather be here than
anywhere else in the world."